It was a gorgeous summer day in the middle of July. The people of Los Angeles went about their busy lives and few slowed down long enough to notice the good looking young blonde gentleman and the pretty blonde sitting by his side. The young man was dressed in dark blue jeans and a white rugby; there was a casual air about him that made one think automatically that though he did not come from money, he was at least comfortable with its trappings.

His companion was blonde and petite; her hair was long and wavy and she was often playing with a stray lock or two absently. The young woman, who was no more than 19, had full red lips, and she used these lips to suck deeply onto a cigarette.

"I really thought she would be there last night." The girl blew out a haze of blue-gray smoke and looked at her companion for confirmation. "I mean—I know we've been having trouble lately—but she said she'd show up."

"She isn't the most dependable person." Ryan—that was the blonde gentleman's name—knew what answer he was supposed to give his girlfriend. "I don't know why you bother with her."

"I don't know either." The young woman sighed deeply and motioned a waitress over with her hand. She placed an order for another cup of coffee and turned back to Ryan. "Please don't let me invite her to anymore parties."

"I promise."

"You're a sweetheart." The young woman leaned over and kissed Ryan and then leaned back in her chair, satisfied. Messalina Foster congratulated herself daily on getting Ryan Atwood for herself. He was a sophomore and was on the fast track to a bright future in architecture. He was a young man who was noticed on campus for his good looks and for his prospects, and Messalina, only a freshman when she had met him, knew from the start that she wanted him.

"He's mine." She had told her friends confidently this the morning after that famous Chi Delta party that everyone on campus spoke of for the rest of the year. "I don't care how it happens; I want him to be mine." Messalina had a girlfriend to contend with, but that was no great matter. When the blue eyed beauty put her mind to something, it usually happened.

That was back in November, before the Thanksgiving break, and by the time Messalina was going back home to LA for Christmas break, she had gotten Ryan for herself.

"What are we doing tonight?" Ryan's words broke Messalina out of her daydream.

"Oh—I don't know." The girl played with a lock of hair and then flashed that disarming smile of hers that had so seduced him. "A clulb?"

"I'd rather be with you." He reached over and took her hand. He had come down this weekend to see her; he did not want to spend the nights sharing her with so many others.

"You're a sweetheart—but I'm just dying to go to this launch party over at Liquid Heroin. I think JZ is going to be there."

"Well in that case." Ryan tried not to hide his disappointment. He saw that she really wanted this, and he knew that Messalina always got her way. "Liquid Heroin it is."

"You won't be sorry." The girl cooed and slid her leg against Ryan's seductively. "You know that I treat you right, don't you?"

"Yes." He knew that he was a slave to his passions, and his passions for her were strong, almost as strong as he'd ever felt for anyone. "You're an angel."

"No—angels are too innocent for me—I must be something else." Her deep blue eyes had become lit with a flashing fire and Ryan knew he had to take her home soon before that flashing fire diminished.

"You can show me." They paid for their coffees and he took her home. Her parents were away—playing the craps and blackjack tables in Las Vegas it must be owned—and so Ryan and Messalina had no trouble enjoying their lust.

"That was"

"Amazing." She kissed his neck and ran fingers along his body. "You keep in damn good shape."

"I try." He was pleased when she played him with her dainty fingers.

"You're such a good instrument of pleasure." Messalina nibbled his ears and let her hands wander down below his waist; she smiled when she got the reaction she wanted. "See—see how well I play you."

He kissed her in reply and they both drifted off to sleep. When he awoke he felt different; he did not feel so content anymore. Messalina was not next to him. He could hear her downstairs, signing along to whatever was on the radio.

What was wrong with him? Something had disturbed him, something in his dreams. He tried to think back but the memories of the dream were elusive and slipping away. What time was it? There was no clock in the room but it was dark out; it must be past nine at least, Ryan figured. He wasn't sure where the light was, but he knew his cell-phone was on the bed stand. He reached for it and in the process of finding it, he knocked over his wallet. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

"Damn." He felt tired; his brain was foggy and the persistent feeling of sadness hung upon his shoulder. Ryan picked up his wallet and decided to see if he needed to take out more money before hitting the clubs.

"You're up." Messalina turned on the lights in the room, making Ryan blink away the sudden invasion of brightness.

"Just up." She came around and sat on his lap for a moment. She kissed him again and told him that she had thrown some frozen pizza in the oven; it would be ready in a couple of minutes. "I'll be down in a minute."

"Okay." She ran her fingers through his hair and disappeared downstairs.

Ryan opened his wallet and counted out 80 dollars in cash; that would be enough. As he slip in the first twenty dollar bill back into his wallet, a sight before his eyes froze him: a small purple flower. Yes, that was it!

Like a flash his dreams returned to him. He had dreamt about her, about Taylor. Had long ago had she given him that flower? It must be nearly a year at this point; she had picked it in Paris, pressed it and sent it to him, "Just because I wanted to send you something wonderful" she had told him. What was Taylor doing now, Ryan wondered? She hadn't come home; she was in Greece with some friends and they hardly spoke anymore. But this flower—this flower.

And his dreams.

As he sat on Messalina's bed, Taylor returned to him, like a vision. The sound of her voice, the smell of her perfume, captured and destroyed his senses. He suddenly wanted to weep because she was so far away from him.

He had forgotten about the flower; it had fallen out of his memory even though it was always there in his wallet, just waiting for a moment to pounce. That small purple little flower had found its moment, and its mark.